


Seen and Heard

by Amagifu



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 15:29:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12460635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amagifu/pseuds/Amagifu
Summary: Inspired by the writing prompt: You accidentally end up as a character in your own story. You need to blend in at all costs: if the characters realize you’re the narrator, it will create a paradox, and you will die.





	Seen and Heard

Enjoying the renaissance fair that day, I strolled the grounds with a friend, both of us dressed as working-class women. I was deep into describing the latest tale I was writing, a story of Rohan after the War of the Ring. 

An old crone stepped into our path, shaking her finger at me. “Beware! Words have power.”

My friend and I laughed, albeit a little nervously. This actress was playing her part too well, quite creepy.

She straightened up, obviously indignant. “Do not treat so carelessly that which you wield!”

Before I could react, the world flashed white.

\- - -

The sounds of a large gathering of people assaulted my ears as I leaned against something, shaking and gasping for breath. Gone were the woods and the ren faire, gone was the crone and my friend as well. I found myself inside a building, seemingly large and lit by candlelight. As I slowly inhaled, desperate to calm down, and followed with my eyes the lines of decoration in the hallway I stood in. Smooth wood, carved with flowing lines. Like a horse’s mane in the breeze.

Wait. I had seen those patterns before. In my mind’s eye, gracing the Golden Hall of Meduseld, at the highest point in Edoras. Capital of Rohan. In Middle-Earth.

Oh, dear.

“Ho there! You have two free hands, yes? Take this and follow me.”

I gawked at the woman who had appeared in front of me, an enormous platter of steaming roast meat in her hands. Middle-aged, heavy-set, long blonde hair braided and coiled at the back of her head. I recognized her immediately; Nerienda, favored servant of Éowyn, and still residing in the Golden Hall while her mistress arranged to move her little household to Ithilien.

But, how could she be here? She was a product of my alternate-universe story, not of Tolkien’s canonical world. If the woman who waited impatiently for me to react was indeed a living person and not just a product of my imagination, and deep in my gut I knew that to be true, then somehow I had fallen into my own tale. That crone from the ren faire; did she do something to make this happen?

“You heard me, yes? Come along!”

What to do? Play along, apparently. At least I was dressed for the part, still in my garb from the faire. Willing my hands to stop shaking, I took the platter from Nerienda and followed her into the crowd.

So far, so good. I glanced about at all the men and women. The laughter and cheers from the assembled guests that filled Meduseld to bursting were not aimed at me as a distinct person; to them, I was simply one more member of the gathering, one playing an important role in the merrymaking by supplying the near-endless stream of food.

Ahead, Éomer leaned back against one of the carved columns, talking with Erkenbrand. Whatever the new Lord of the Mark had said made the Second Marshal roll his eyes and groan; I could only guess, since the tale of this gathering was beyond where I had last written down my ideas. The people here were running with my story line on their own. As the narrator-now-character, I had to proceed carefully. Rumor among writers was that it was dangerous to be unveiled in one’s own tale.

“Here, let me take that for you.”

I spun about at that comment, to face the one who had spoken. A young man, tall and warrior-built, with fiery red-gold hair, green eyes, and a well-trimmed beard, grinned at me.

“Oh! M’lord Grimbold. Err, thank you.”

He blinked, his smile faltering. “You have the advantage of me, lass.”

Dammit. Not likely that a serving woman of Edoras would have recognized a Rider from the Westfold, unless he was a frequent visitor like the Second Marshal. Which Grimbold was not.

“Ahhh.”

My hesitant reply died on my lips; I could feel someone else’s gaze upon me. Daring a glance over my shoulder, I saw Éomer now looking directly at us, specifically at me, with a slight furrow to his brow. Amid the din, he could not have possibly heard the quiet exchange between us. A shiver overtook me; did my presumptive knowledge activate the narrator’s paradox, awakening one of the characters to my presence as not of their world?

“Excuse me, m’lord, duty calls.”

I thrust the platter at Grimbold and beat a hasty retreat back through the crowd. The weight of Éomer’s gaze didn’t lift from my shoulders, although he seemed to be the only one reacting so. The people I passed seemed to pay me no real regard. Still, no one should have singled me out at all, and had I actually thought first before blurting pleasantries at the handsome redhead, no one would have. My faux pas with Grimbold must have created a crack encasing the paradox, and of all people to enable that for but the Lord of the Mark. Intelligent and clever, he was, and quick to react in every fictional world he ever appeared in.

Overhearing Erkenbrand’s questioning laugh above the crowd, I hazarded a guess that Éomer had moved away from the column. I didn’t spare a moment to look and instead kept moving.

Once through the side doorway, I nearly sprinted down the hall in search of a quiet nook or alcove. There would be several exits to the balcony that encircled the Golden Hall, and likely most everyone would stay inside the hall while the feasting was in full swing. Once outside and hopefully out of sight and mind, I could try to focus on how to get myself out of this mess.

Ducking around the next corner, I finally paused to catch my breath. Leaning against the wall, listening to my heartbeat thundering in my ears, I tried to slow the gulps of air. It rushed out in a squeak, however, as a hand landed firmly on my shoulder and gripped tight to turn me about. Before I could react further, I was stunned into silence as I realized who had halted my egress.

At arm’s length, Éomer regarded me closely. “Granted, circumstances kept me from frequenting these halls until recently, but even so I recognize all who served Théoden and saw to the running of Meduseld.” He raised an eyebrow as he took a half-step forward. “All except you, lady. You tread these halls as though you know them well, but I can tell that you are not of the Mark. Who are you?”

I could only blink at him, feeling increasingly queasy as I did so. My thoughts scattered like ash in a breeze, as I tried to think of any sort of explanation that wouldn’t give away who I truly was. All I could grasp onto was Éomer saying how since the people of the Mark do not lie they are not easily deceived. Through this, the reality of the narrator’s paradox loomed heavily in my mind. Discovery meant death. My death.


End file.
